I belong to the Russian language. As to the state, from my point

“I belong to the Russian language. As to the state, from my point of view, the measure of a writer’s patriotism is not oaths from a high platform, but how he writes in the language of the people among whom he lives.” Thus spoke Joseph Brodsky, the exiled poet, whose words flow not as the cry of loyalty to power, but as devotion to the living soul of speech itself. In this declaration he proclaimed that a true writer’s allegiance is not to the throne, nor to the party, nor to the fleeting banners of politics, but to the eternal temple of language—the vessel of thought, memory, and truth.

To say “I belong to the Russian language” is to confess a deeper citizenship than any passport can grant. For nations may rise and fall, borders may shift, and rulers may come and go, but the language of a people endures, carrying within it centuries of laughter and sorrow, triumph and tragedy. Brodsky, driven from his homeland by persecution, still carried Russia within him because he carried its tongue. In exile, deprived of country, he was never deprived of the words that had shaped his soul. This is a teaching for the ages: a writer’s first homeland is the language he serves.

Brodsky’s suspicion of oaths and platforms is no accident. He lived in an age when rulers demanded that poets and artists become the mouthpieces of ideology, swearing loyalty to the state in grand declarations. Yet he discerned that such patriotism is hollow if it is not rooted in art that speaks truly to the heart of the people. A writer who flatters rulers but betrays his language is no patriot, but a traitor to his craft. For it is the written word, not political speeches, that preserves the essence of a nation across centuries.

History gives us proof of this. Consider Dante Alighieri, who, exiled from Florence, chose to write his Divine Comedy not in the Latin of the elite, but in the Tuscan tongue of ordinary people. By honoring the language of the people, Dante not only forged Italian literature but gave birth to the Italian identity itself. Just as Brodsky declared that loyalty to language is the true test of a writer’s patriotism, Dante’s choice made him the father of a nation long before Italy was united by statecraft. Words, not crowns, defined a people.

In Brodsky’s case, the paradox is sharp: he was cast out of Russia by the state, yet he remained forever Russian through his devotion to its language. His exile teaches that a state may expel the body, but it cannot expel the soul that sings in the words of its people. His art, written for truth rather than propaganda, was a higher service to his homeland than any oath of loyalty could ever be. This is why he said he “belonged” to language—for it alone cannot betray.

The lesson for us is clear: true patriotism is not noise on the platform, but integrity in one’s craft, faithfulness in one’s speech, and service to the truth of one’s people. For the writer, this means honoring the language not with slogans, but with beauty, honesty, and depth. For the citizen, this means speaking and acting in a way that uplifts rather than corrupts the shared tongue. If we pollute our words with lies, we weaken the very roots of our community. But if we preserve our words with truth and honor, we preserve the spirit of the nation.

Therefore, let each person act: cherish the language of your people, guard it against decay, enrich it with sincerity and courage. Do not think that loyalty is proven by loud vows or blind obedience; it is proven by how you live and how you speak. As Brodsky reminds us, when thrones crumble and borders vanish, it is the language that remains—and in belonging to it, we belong to the eternal heart of our people.